Mercy (39 page)

that covered the ball, trailing up the Himalayas and into the Sahara and thr ough the Mediterranean Sea.

"Well," Cam said finally, pulling an envelope out of his breast pocket. "It's not nearly as exotic. But Merry Christmas."

Mia tore the envelope open. Inside was a brochure, carefully hand-lettered, announcing the presence of Braebury House, a bed-and-breakfast in the Whit e Mountains of New Hampshire. Her hair spilled over her face as she sat up, glancing at the photographs of a wing chair before a glowing fire, a fourposter bed, a comfortable clutter of antiques.

"Two weekends from now," Cam said, his eyes pleading. "I'm going to say the re's a training session in New Braintree. Your aunt could get sick again." Mia considered having Cam for a weekend, a whole weekend, in a place where nobody would judge her as the other woman and no one would know his name. She tried to imagine being part of a twosome like her parents, so close t hey would be able to think for each other. She considered what it might fe el like not to be the odd one out.

He pressed a kiss against the side of her neck, as if he thought she was hesi tating; as if he thought she could truly tell him no. "Please," Cam whispered

. "Let me try again."

Christmas was not nearly so much of a celebration in Wheelock as Hogmanay, which was known to the rest of Massachusetts as New Year's Eve. As in Sco tland, most of the town got roaring drunk. After midnight, neighbors went first-footing, going from house to house to wish each other a good new yea r, bearing shortbread or bottles of wine or fine whiskey. Since Cam was always working New Year's Eve, it was much the same as any ot her night for Allie, except for all the noise outside--it was difficult to ignore the drunken, off-key renditions of "Auld Lang Syne" and the spit and pop of firecrackers the teenagers set off in the wet, cold streets. She ha d tried to convince Angus and Jamie to spend the night at her house watchin g the Times Square ball drop, but Angus had simply grunted and said if he'd lived another year, he was damn well going to celebrate it by sleeping in. Jamie--well, Jamie just hadn't felt like celebrating. "Come by 273

then, after twelve," she had said. "They say the perfect first-footer is a tall

, dark-haired man who brings lots of food."

Jamie had laughed at that. "Cam's just as tall. And I can't imagine he'll be happy to shoot the breeze with me after a night of locking up drunks." So Allie had found herself celebrating alone. At eleven o'clock she took ou t a bottle of Glenfiddich, which she never drank, and tossed back a shot. S

he did two more before eleven-thirty. By the time it was midnight, she was feeling charged and festive, her stomach burning pleasantly, her power enou gh to conquer the world.

She watched Dick Clark for a little while and then went upstairs. On Hogm anay, Cam usually made it home around two in the morning. She could showe r, change the sheets, and hope he wasn't exhausted when he got in. It was just after one when she finished. The bedroom was lovely; lit with c andles she'd kept out from Christmas and smelling of the rose infusion she added to her detergent when she washed the sheets. She was still wearing pl aid pajamas and oversized slippers in the shape of elephants, but she had p lenty of time to change. Sighing, she glanced around, looking for something to do.

She didn't want to straighten Cam's drawers, but she was feeling generous. It had always amazed her how someone who looked so starched and perfectly pressed during the day in a police officer's uniform could unwittingly wr inkle everything else he owned. Allie had once teased him, saying that he'

d joined the force because he couldn't keep any other work clothes in dece nt shape. And Cam had said that when he was a kid, Ellen had ironed his un derwear, so maybe this was just his way of rebelling.

Allie opened his shirt drawer, riffling through the rainbow of fabrics. She couldn't imagine Ellen ironing boxer shorts; ironing anything. It would go a gainst her principles now--she said ironing took all the creativity out of t he fabric's personality. She had even taken Allie to task for her bonsai pro ject at the shop. How could she justify chaining with copper wire something that was meant to grow wild and free?

Absently, Allie began to organize Cam's T-shirts according to color. She knew it wouldn't stay that way for more than a day, but she had nothing better to do, and with all that whiskey in her, if she lay

Jodi Picoult

down and closed her eyes just for a minute she'd be out like a light. Reds on top, blues on the bottom, whites and decals on a side all their own. She opened Cam's underwear drawer and began linking the socks. "Dahlink," sh e drawled, pulling one long gray sock from the tangle, "have I got a match f or you!" She fingered the rest of the pile for its mate, rolled them into a ball, and set them on the top of the dresser. She did this until all the soc ks were lined up. "Like Noah's Ark," she murmured, and then she heard Cam co ming up the stairs.

She turned around to face him, her eyes glowing and her cheeks on fire. "Fig ures," she said. "Redheaded first-footers are the worst kind of luck." She t ook an unsteady step toward him, pulling on the front of his shirt. Cam smelled the whiskey; he could have smelled it from downstairs. It was overpowering the fresh floral scent of the turned-down bed. "Well, Jesus," he said, grinning so hard a dimple appeared in his cheek. "You, Allie Mac Donald, are drunk."

"I am nothing of the kind," Allie said indignantly. "You're just sober."

"As a judge," Cam laughed. "Exactly what I wanted to come home to." He sat down on the bed and pulled off his boots, looking at the row of socks on the top of his dresser. "I hope you weren't doing this for me. It's hopele ss."

Allie shrugged. "I was bored." She took a step toward him, swaying suggestiv ely and nearly falling in the process. "I was waiting for you." Cam smiled. "You'll have to wait a little longer. I need to take a shower."

"That's okay," Allie said. "I'll attack some more drawers." She turned back to the dresser and pulled out Cam's boxer shorts. There were some white ones

, but most were printed with the images of tropical fish or moose or traffic signs--Allie always stuffed a new pair into his Christmas stocking. She lif ted the boxers on top--lipstick kisses--and something tumbled to the floor. It was a T-shirt, rolled tight into a ball around a pair of women's bikini unde rwear, nothing at all like the ones Allie wore. "Look at this," she said, holdi ng them up to the light.

275

Cam had just pulled his shirt over his head. He turned to see Allie holding t he clothes Mia had left behind the weekend before Christmas; the clothes that he, like an idiot, had forgotten to bring back to her.

The moment of reckoning hit him like a sucker punch, driving him to sit dow n on the bed with a sharp intake of breath. Not yet, not yet, not yet, he t hought. / don't want to let her go. He did not let himself wonder which wom an he meant.

Allie brought the T-shirt closer and noticed the little label in the neck. " Mia's," she said matter-of-factly. "I should have known." She folded the shi rt and placed it on the bed beside Cam. "God, have we had them all this time

? She must have left them months ago when she first stayed overnight." Cam felt his mouth moving woodenly around words that seemed to have no edges. "Maybe you washed them. Maybe you stuck them in there by mista ke."

Allie nodded. "I probably wasn't thinking. I do the laundry on automatic pilot. If it's soft, it must be a pair of boxers."

Cam stuffed the shirt and panties beneath the bed, where he wouldn't have to think about it. He had never loved Allie more than he did in that incredibl e, guileless moment; the feeling flooded him in tandem with a hot swell of r elief, so that he became full and heavy, immobile.

He looked at his wife, hiccuping behind her hand, her hair straggling out of its braid and down the back of her plaid pajamas. Her teeth bit into her bo ttom lip as she folded his underwear; her conversation tumbled along in a gi ddy rush.

Innocence looked lovely on her.

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A Hie and Cam usually celebrated Valentine's Day on January 14, because the shop claimed too much of her attention the following month for her to enjo y the holiday herself. It had been a tradition for six years now. Allie wou ld wake up in the morning and pull a card for Cam and a gift out of her nig htstand, and Cam would stare at her, his mouth opening and closing like a t rout's, as he realized he'd forgotten yet again.

It wasn't like she was buying him something extraordinary--usually she wen t to an outdoorsman shop and picked up a couple of off-season flies--but s he could not keep herself from thinking, the night before, that this year was going to be the year Cam remembered all by himself. And she supposed s he could have stacked the odds, too, by mentioning Valentine's Day in pass ing a week or so before, but that would have defeated the purpose. To Cam's credit, he always bounced back. He'd return after work with a box of chocolates and a card, / love you scribbled in pencil and slightly shaky, as if he had written it while his car was still moving.

This year, they were celebrating two days earlier, January 12, because Cam would be away on business that weekend. The sun was high and still when A llie woke up, but she screwed her eyes shut and willed herself to go back to sleep. She pretended that she

Jodi Picoult

could smell something dizzy and sweet--the perfume of, say, a half-dozen cal la lilies that Cam had stowed beneath his side of the bed in the middle of t he night. She slid her eyes to her right, but Cam was snoring lightly. One a rm was tossed up over his head, one foot peaked out from the quilt.

/ am going to count to ten, she told herself. And then he's going to wake up and surprise me.

One. Two, three . . .

She didn't know why this year seemed to matter more than the other years. Maybe it was because they had been fighting so much during the holidays. M

aybe it was because she had seen so little of him while conducting Graham'

s jury survey. Maybe it was because she was getting tired of doing all the work.

Seven, eight . . .

With a sigh she rolled toward Cam. The stained-glass panel he'd given her mo nths before cast half of his face into a blue shadow, making him look otherw orldly. The glass heart of one daffodil, a bright red shard, reflected on hi s cheek like a scar.

She dug in her nightstand for the card and the tiny box. Then she poked him in the ribs. "Happy Valentine's Day," she said. Cam's eyes shot open. "No," he groaned. He rolled his face into his pillow. " Shit."

Allie ran her hand over the muscular line of his shoulder, down the ridges of his spine. "Let me guess."

Cam propped himself up on his elbows and offered her a smile that would have charmed a snake. "I've been preoccupied with this stupid training," he said

. "You know, getting things set at the station so that I can leave today. Be sides, I've got till midnight," he reminded her.

"That's what you always say."

"That's because it's always true." He rolled onto his back. "If you were smar t, you'd wait until dinnertime to give me a card."

He was already tearing it open. "If I did that," Allie said dispassionately, "I'

d never get anything in return."

Cam sat up and read the card, grinned, and kissed her cheek. "Look at it th is way--since I'm leaving at noon, you're sure to get something by then." H

e stripped away the wrapping paper on the tiny gift and lifted two woolly b oogers out of the box. Laughing,

he placed them on the sheet between him and Allie. "These are great. I love getting fly-fishing stuff when there's a foot of snow on the ground." Allie swung her legs out of bed. "Makes spring come that much faster," she said, and padded to the bathroom.

When she'd closed the door behind her, Cam exhaled slowly and held his han ds up to his face. They were trembling. He was planning to meet Mia in She lburne Falls at one, and leave her car at a Stop & Shop so they could driv e the bulk of the way to New Hampshire together.

Allie came out of the bathroom while he was stuffing clothes into a duffel bag. She watched him fold jeans, a turtleneck and a sweatshirt, a pair of l ong underwear. Then he put his heavy snow boots right on top. "Aren't you f orgetting a uniform?" she asked.

He jumped, zipped the bag, and turned around. "Christ," he said. "You scared the hell out of me." He gestured at the bag. "It's a casual seminar. No uni forms."

Allie arched an eyebrow. "Are they holding it indoors?"

"In the middle of January? What do you think?"

She moved to her dresser and pulled out a pair of stockings. "Then what's t he long underwear for?"

"Oh, that. They're doing some kind of survival thing. A biathlon. Skiing, s hooting. You know."

He wondered when he had become so good at distorting the truth. He watched Allie struggle into a pair of panty hose. It was not a graceful thing, in spite of what you imagined when you were a teenage boy. He turned abruptly, picked up his bag, and left the bedroom.